The Wedding
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: Mycroft is marrying our dear Detective Inspector. This is the story of the events around their wedding. I didn't mean for John and Sherlock to horn in so much but they did and now I can't pry them out. Follow up on 'When the Spark Dulls'.
1. Finding the Problem

**Disclaimer: Seriously if you don't already know that the characters aren't mine after over forty stories then you're never going to get it. **

**A/N: Okay, I have a confession to make. I accidentally deleted the PM that gave me this idea. I know that it was from either beccabrrr or janie17…I think. I'm so sorry! Anyway, I'm dedicating this chapter to both of them because hey, I can't remember whose idea it was and they both reviewed every single chapter of 'When the Spark Dulls' as did a few other people. If it wasn't either of you then let me know and I'll dedicate the next chapter to the proper person. **

** This is a follow-up…spin-off? Whichever. Of 'When the Spark Dulls'. The reviewer asked for the wedding of Mycroft and Greg so I figured 'hey, why not?'. It's not like I'm not curious myself. So here you go. Let me know what you think.**

**Finding the Problem**

His brother was getting married. Married. Mycroft. To Lestrade. How in the world had this happened without him noticing? Granted he'd been gone for much of their courtship but still...he'd talked to Mycroft once a week. How had he missed this?

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and glared up at the ceiling. He didn't mind their relationship. In fact he thought it would be good for Mycroft and probably good for Lestrade as well. He just decided to dwell on the fact that he had missed the beginnings rather than think about other things.

"I'm off out," John called as he sped past the parlour without a single look in Sherlock's direction. "Got a date. With Mary. A _nice_ girl. A friend. Who won't abandon me at the first sign of trouble." Then he slammed the door to the flat and stomped down the stairs.

Yes, thinking about Mycroft and Lestrade was much better than the other alternatives. Sherlock sighed. Mycroft said he needed to apologize to John. But he'd explained his reasoning for faking his death to John immediately after the shorter man had punched him. John had said he'd understood. Why would an apology make John forgive him when an explanation wouldn't?

And who was this Mary Morstan anyway? How had she dug her hooks into his John while he'd been gone? Sherlock scowled at the ceiling. This was not helping him figure out how he'd missed the clues to Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship and that was all he wanted to know right now.

"Hello, brother," Mycroft interrupted his furious contemplation. "Whatever are you doing?"

"Debating the pros and cons of allowing you to marry my favorite Detective Inspector," Sherlock answered promptly if untruthfully.

"Favorite? Really?" Mycroft's tone was disbelieving as he seated himself on John's chair. "I was unaware that you had a favorite Detective Inspector."

Sherlock shrugged. "Lestrade's the only DI that will work with me with a minimum of fuss." He turned his head to gaze at his brother. "Why are you here?"

"Am I not allowed to simply come visit my brother?" Sherlock snorted derisively. Mycroft affected a wounded look. "Fine," he sighed after a few minutes. "Mummy has requested that I bring you and John to the townhouse for dinner and a discussion of…flowers for the wedding, I believe." He looked around curiously. "Where is the good doctor this evening? Surely he isn't hiding from me."

Sherlock returned to glaring at the ceiling. "He isn't hiding," he grumbled. "He has a date. With that Morstan chit. She's awful. Boring. Far too mundane for him but he won't listen to me."

"No, he wouldn't, would he?" Mycroft murmured and typed out something on his phone. "Well, that's taken care of," he rose to his feet. "Come, Sherlock, we mustn't keep Mummy waiting."

Sherlock rolled off of the sofa and glared at his brother. "He's only going to be angry with me for whatever you've done, Mycroft," he warned.

"We shall see. You will have to forgive me if I believe that my upcoming nuptials are more important than your Dr. Watson's fits of temper." Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the stairs as he descended them in front of Sherlock and headed out the door into the street to the predictable black car waiting for them.

MH/GL MH/GL MH/GL

"What did you do?" John hissed at Sherlock the moment he arrived. He ignored everyone else in the room and only glared at Sherlock. Surprisingly, Sherlock detected irritation but no true anger in his friend. This would be the first time in the month he'd been back that John hadn't been absolutely furious with him.

"I didn't actually have anything to do with messing up your date, this time," Sherlock told him earnestly. "Mycroft—"

And just that quickly the anger was back. The cold fury that had chilled all of their interactions for the past month had returned and Sherlock couldn't understand why. "Of course," John said in a normal tone of voice and turned his back on Sherlock to greet Mrs. Holmes.

She smiled warmly and knowingly at him. "He'll get the message eventually, John," she assured him softly when he kissed her cheek. "Just keep trying."

Mycroft caught John's grimace and nod and finally understood John's unreasoning anger. He grinned delightedly with his back to the room and most importantly his heartbroken brother. John didn't like Sherlock's new subservient attitude and solicitous actions. He wanted his Sherlock back and was determined to get what he wanted.

"Well," Gregory said from beside him. "I knew things were off between them but…this is…this is…Hell, I don't quite know what this is."

Mycroft turned around to face the room and took his fiancé's hand in his own. "It will work itself out," he assured the other man. "But do try to annoy Sherlock tonight to help things along, won't you? I certainly shall."

Gregory looked askance at his fiancé and then shrugged. Mycroft was usually right when it came to Sherlock. Before Sherlock had gone away John had been the person most versed in Sherlock but now…well, now John was going out of his way to not interpret Sherlock. "Right," he finally nodded.

"What are you two whispering about?" Sherlock interrupted them petulantly.

Greg shrugged again. "Well, I was just asking Mycroft if it would be all right to invite Anderson to the next dinner. He's married. He's had a wedding. He can tell us what to expect. As a matter of fact," he paused as Sherlock paled even farther. "His wife's a wedding planner, or maybe it's his sister. Can't remember exactly. We should ask him."

"No!" Sherlock nearly shouted. "You can't! What the Hell are you thinking, you idiot! Anderson would ruin everything about your wedding! He'd breathe on something and it would crumble to dust! Have you lost what little bit of brains you possessed to begin with?"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes snapped.

Sherlock's shoulders tensed and he glanced over at her and at John. John was staring at him with a purposely blank look and had made no move to reprimand him. Sherlock's shoulders slumped dejectedly. John was still angry. John, he was beginning to feel, would always be angry with him.

Maybe he should stop trying to make it up to John altogether. He'd done his level best to be considerate for the past month. He'd only played his violin during the day. He'd picked up his own tea cup to put in the sink. Done his own laundry. He hadn't brought home any body parts from the morgue. He'd not insulted anyone, least of all John. He hadn't said anything about John's dates and hadn't even tried to horn in on them as he had in the past.

It was bloody hard work, being the man John wanted him to be. Maybe too hard. It just wasn't fair. John hadn't had a problem with him before. Why now? Sherlock had never understood the light bulb moment. Now he did. John hadn't asked him to change. John had seemed to grow increasingly angry the more he tried to be what he thought John wanted. Was that it? Was John angry because he was changing himself?

Oh! Oh, this was glorious! Better than a locked room mystery or a serial killer! He schooled his expression into contriteness. "I'm sorry, Mother," he told her and walked over to kiss her cheek. "I'll mind my tongue."

On her other side, John's muscles tensed in fury again even as his mother rolled her eyes at him. She grabbed the back of his neck and held on tightly. "Don't play this game, Sherlock," she hissed in his ear. "You've hurt that man quite enough."

His wide blue eyes met her. "Yes, Mummy," he whispered. "I won't."

She released his neck and let him stand up. "Good boy," she praised. "Now then, I do believe it's time for dinner, boys."

Proving to her that they were all the good sons she expected them to be they followed her from the room wordlessly. Though she did notice that John walked a bit closer to Sherlock than he had been lately. Good. It was about time the two of them fixed this mess Sherlock had made.


	2. The Meaning of a Bloom

**Disclaimer: Are you guys still on this kick? Really? Come on! No matter how we all may wish otherwise the characters of the Sherlock series belong to ACD first, BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat second and last. It sucks but that's the reality. **

**A/N: I know Sherlock's a selfish little brat. He wants everything to be all about him and I've obliged him…for now. He won't get his way for long though. This is Mycroft and Greg's wedding and Sherlock will need to take a back seat. Let me know what you think.**

** This chapter is dedicated solely to beccabrrr. She (God I hope you're a girl) gave me the idea for the story so since I couldn't remember before this chapter is all hers. And the flower meanings came from a website called The Flower Expert. Check it out if you wish.**

**The Meaning of a Bloom**

Dinner was consumed in mostly silence. Greg and Mycroft care nothing for the food on their plates, they ate it without tasting anything. They were consumed with each other. Sherlock would have found it rather nauseating if he'd been paying them any mind whatsoever. He wasn't though. He was far too busy sneaking glances at his flatmate and best friend. John was aware of the glances and ignored them as best he could. Mrs. Holmes knew all of this and was filled with far too much smug satisfaction to taste what she ate. Soon, very soon her world would be completely righted again.

"Now then, my boys," she said as the tiramisu was served. "We need to discuss the wedding."

That instantly had everyone's attention. "I should go," John murmured. "This is a family time."

His forearm was suddenly in an iron vice grip. "You are dear Gregory's Best Man, are you not?" Mummy Holmes asked him pleasantly though there was steel beneath the fluff.

"Yes ma'am," John answered somewhat reluctantly and sat back in his chair. He knew she'd make him stay.

"Then you will stay here," she announced. Sherlock's expression shifted minutely into relief. "And how many times must I ask you to call me Mummy or at the very least Viola? Never mind," she waved a hand at him when he opened his mouth. "I'll continue to remind you until you do so without a second thought." She turned her attention to Mycroft and Greg. "Now, flowers? Any thoughts?"

"No lilies," Greg said quickly. "I know they're traditional but they just signify death to me. Why have flowers normally found at a funeral at a wedding?"

Mummy took the pen and paper that one of the servants held out to her and made a note. "I've never particularly liked lilies anyway," she assured him. "What about bluebells?"

Mycroft snickered. "Really Mummy, at our wedding?" He shook his head. "The narcissus would be better suited but I don't care much for the smell of those."

"I'm lost," Greg admitted. "I like bluebells though."

"Of course you are, Lestrade," Sherlock scowled. "You're an idiot. Bluebells would be completely inappropriate at your wedding because—"

"They mean humility," John finished quietly. "Neither you nor Mycroft are humble, Greg."

Sherlock gaped openly at him. "How…?"

John shot him a hard look. "My grandmother taught me. She thought it was important."

Greg chuckled. "Good," he grinned. "You can be in charge of making sure they don't make the flowers too girly."

John rolled his eyes. "They're flowers, Greg. By definition flowers are girly."

Greg shrugged. "Sunflowers are kind of manly, Johnnie boy. They're tall and robust and vibrant."

John thought for a moment and then nodded. "They'd work. They mean pride and sunshine."

"Some people find them aesthetically pleasing as well," Sherlock pointed out. "I find them a bit too…yellow."

"You would," John snorted.

They thought for a few more moments and then Sherlock grinned maliciously. "Is there a flower that means meddlesome and nosy and lazy? It'd describe Mycroft perfectly."

John snickered as he shook his head and the pair shared the first smile together in years.

"If we're going to go with sunflowers I think we should use yellow tulips as well," Mycroft said softly. "They mean that there is sunshine in your smile."

"Blue violets," Mummy said softly. "Watchfulness, faithfulness, I'll always be true."

John nodded. "I like that one. Though now I feel as though I'm surrounded by Ravenclaws." Greg was the only one that allowed himself to laugh. Mummy patted his hand.

"It must be difficult to be the Gryffindor in the midst of us Ravenclaws," she told him.

John frowned. "I'm no Gryffindor, that's Greg. I'm a Hufflepuff and proud of it." He thrust his chest out in a show of pride. "So, going with the blue and yellow theme what about Blue Hyacinth? It means constancy."

"Very good John," Mummy squeezed his hand and beamed at him. "Now the flowers are sorted. The four of you will wear blue suits with yellow ties to go with the color scheme. What about cake?"

"I don't think John and I should wear the exact same thing as Mycroft and Lestrade," Sherlock piped up with. "The idiots will get confused on who the grooms are."

Mummy cocked her head in thought and then reluctantly nodded. "Yellow suits are so hard to find though," she mused aloud. "I suppose we've time to find a few though. I'm sure my tailor can whip them up."

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond only to find he had nothing to say. Sherlock and John spluttered their denials. Greg took one look at his mother-in-law to be and burst into laughter. He suddenly had visions of Sherlock and John in bright, sunshine yellow suits and midnight blue ties. He thumped his head down on the table and laughed uncontrollably.

"No, just no," John said adamantly. "I'm not wearing a yellow suit, Mummy, it's not gonna happen."

She pouted at him and grudgingly nodded. "Very well. I'll wear a yellow dress with blue accents and you and Sherlock can wear blue suits and yellow shirts. Now, cake?"

"Toffee," all four men said in one voice.

"Toffee?" Mummy asked faintly. "Why toffee? I mean I like toffee but all four of you? I think I'm confused."

Greg flushed a bit and rubbed at the back of his head. "It's a bit of a long story really," he demurred.

Mycroft's hands clenched into fists under the table and out of view. "It's rather a long boring story, Mummy," he fought to keep his voice even.

Sherlock flicked his fingers dismissively. "Really, Mother, it's nothing that would interest you." But his bright eyes and barely suppressed smirk told the lie of his words.

John made a strangled sound that had everyone in the room staring at him. He brought his fingers to his lips and clenched his eyes closed. Tears leaked from the sides. "No, no, I can't," he gasped out and started laughing helplessly. "It's too funny. I…Oh, God…" he put his head in his hands and just let himself laugh.

"Well," Mummy said bemused. "Now I simply must know. Anything that could make John laugh like that must be very interesting."

"We made a pact, John," Greg hissed. "A solemn vow to never speak of those events again."

John turned his head on the table and stared at Greg. "You started it," he accused.

"You will tell me," Mummy ordered.

"Um…well," Mycroft hummed.

"I'll tell it," Sherlock declared. "You'll give her the bare minimum of the facts and nothing else and she'll hound us for the details all night and for forever until she gets what she wants. John would be better but as he can't seem to control his hilarity I must cover for his idiocy again."

To everyone's surprise John only laughed harder, slapping his hand on the table and clutching at his stomach. "I…I may be an…an i-idiot but I'm…the only…one…one who made it…out of there…cl-clean," he gasped out.

"Shut up, John," the other three said together.


	3. Vast Vats

**Disclaimer: Reality check? Yes, still not mine. I can wish on every star in the sky and the characters will still belong to someone that isn't me. **

**A/N: In true Sparks Universe fashion this chapter is a flashback. Don't you love story time? I do and I just can't seem to stop. Let me know what you think. Also, I've been watching Burn Notice so I have spies on the brain.**

**Vast Vats**

"No, no, I'll tell it," John took a deep breath to control himself. "You were unconscious for the good stuff anyway."

"Oh God," Greg groaned and buried his head in his arms on the table. "That stuff's kinda personal, Johnny boy."

"Then you should have taken better care not to have an audience," John retorted.

MH/GL MH/GL MH/GL

"Are you sure he's in there?" John asked dubiously gesturing to the large factory in front of them. Sherlock shot him a look that questioned his sanity. "It's only…" he snickered. "His name's Willy and that's a candy factory."

Lestrade let out his own snicker while Sherlock shot them both a look of disbelief. "His name is William," he corrected.

"Sherlock," Mycroft drawled and ignored the glare his brother sent him. "Do not allow their juvenile humor to distract you. We must follow him into the factory. He still has the flash drive with the spy list on it. If he gets away hundreds of men and women may lose their lives. We cannot allow that to happen." John and Lestrade sobered and nodded. "Do try to avoid the Vermicious Knids though. I hear they're rather vicious."

Delivered in that posh, cultured accent this statement sent John and Lestrade into paroxysms of laughter. Rolling his eyes at them Sherlock grabbed John's elbow to propel him forward and left Lestrade for Mycroft to deal with. "What is a Vermicious Knid?" He hissed to his blogger and friend.

John giggled and shook his head. "I'll…I'll show you later, promise." He finally said. "It's from a movie…well, a book but they made a movie from it too."

Sherlock scowled. "Oh dull," he knelt down in front of the side door to the factory and pulled out his lock-picking set.

"I am not seeing this," Lestrade turned his back on the other three and Sherlock's lock-picking so that he wouldn't actually see any illegal activity.

Mycroft reached over Sherlock's shoulder as the lock-picking set disappeared back into Sherlock's great coat and turned the handle. "Oh my, would you look at that," he drawled. "It was unlocked. The security around here is abysmal."

Lestrade turned back around and grinned at Mycroft, brown eyes twinkling. "Who needs locks when you have Oompa Loompa's?"

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded with a small smile. Their eyes caught for a timeless moment that was broken by John's cough. Sherlock had already disappeared into the depths of the factory. "After you," Mycroft waved to the door and then followed the others in. He wouldn't normally have accompanied his brother on a case but the chance to ogle the Detective Inspector was too great to pass up.

The man did fill out a pair of trousers nicely, Mycroft sighed to himself. It would be quite easy to just allow himself to daydream about that view for days but they did have a job to do and getting distracted at this juncture could get them killed.

"It's not a bad view," John echoed his thoughts in a whisper. "But we do have work to do first, Mycroft. Sherlock went right so you take Greg and go left and I'll go find Sherlock."

Mycroft nodded but before he could pull the DI down the left corridor a triumphant shout had the three men sprinting to the right and into a large room filled with huge vats of candy.

"Oh Good Lord," John sighed, looking up. "I'm in a bad movie. I know I'm in a bad movie. This is just too clichéd."

"John?" Lestrade asked. "What is it? What are you talking about?" John pointed up in answer and Lestrade followed his finger to the two figures struggling on the catwalk twenty feet above them. "Oh Hell," he muttered.

"This is not going to end well," Mycroft agreed. He cast his eyes around for some idea of how to help his brother and spotted the two ladders leading to the catwalk. "Gregory," he pointed to the ladders and Lestrade nodded. "John, stay here."

"What? Why?" John's voice was indignant and the glare he sent Mycroft could have blistered paint.

A vicious crack of bone on metal, Sherlock's involuntary cry of pain and the sudden shimmy of the catwalk answered him. "Sherlock!" John yelled without thought. He turned to Mycroft. "Hurry up!" But Mycroft was already making his way quickly up the ladder. John looked around quickly for something to use as a splint, though he kept one eye on the figures above him.

"William," Lestrade called out from his position on one end of the catwalk. "William, look, we don't want to hurt you. Just let Sherlock go and give us the memory stick. Then we can all walk out of here." His tone was soothing and warm.

William wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's injured wrist and used the pain to bring the taller man around in front of him. "You can't truly believe he'll let me just go, can you?" He jerked his head towards Mycroft. "Don't come any closer, either of you," he forced Sherlock to the edge of the catwalk. "I'll dump him over, I swear it."

"Dammit, Sherlock," John cursed quietly. He pulled his Browning from its hiding place at the small of his back and sighted down the barrel. "Can't we go just one case without one of us getting abducted or injured or…just turn to the side a bit, Willy, just a little bit." He frowned. He could creep to the other side of the catwalk and then shoot the man. Suiting action to thoughts he slowly, carefully made his way under the drama above him and took aim again.

Up on the catwalk Mycroft's patience had reached its limit. Sherlock was far paler than was normal for him and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. William seemed to be delighting in grinding the broken bones in Sherlock's wrist together and for all his stoic façade he knew that Sherlock was in pain. He caught John's migration from the corner of his eye and smiled smugly. He waited for a moment longer until a glint on metal told him that John was ready. "Now!" He yelled and the report of gunfire filled the still air.

There was a cry of pain, the catwalk teetered, two bodies started to fall towards the floor. "Shit!" John cursed and rushed forward even as Lestrade and Mycroft raced towards the toppling figures.

Lestrade was able to grab Sherlock's flailing wrist but he'd forgotten about the younger man's injury and Sherlock struggled against him. William fell to the floor with a thud that was unremarked. Sherlock's renewed wind milling caught both Lestrade and Mycroft and the catwalk shook alarmingly. "Sherlock!" John yelled seeing the bolts that held the catwalk begin to strain. "Stop moving!"

His cautioning cry was futile as the bolts gave way and the three men crashed down ten feet into one of the vats. To John's surprise instead of hearing the thuds he expected he heard one large splash and a fountain of golden liquid flew up from the vat. He stopped in astonishment and then ran with renewed energy to a step ladder on the side of the room. He dragged it back to the vat and climbed to the top to look down into the vat.

"It was lucky, really," Lestrade was telling Mycroft while clinging to the side of the vat with one arm and Sherlock's unconscious form with the other. "That you had one of your men trained as a sniper shadowing us today. Really lucky. What is this stuff anyway?"

Mycroft chuckled and used one hand to wipe at his eyes. "I do love you, Gregory," he said. "And I do believe this is toffee, liquid toffee." He leaned over and licked the toffee from Lestrade's lips. "It's my new favorite flavor."

"Really?" Lestrade breathed out with a goofy grin on his face. John sensing imminent danger snagged the collar of Sherlock's coat just in time for Lestrade to let go of the side of the vat and throw himself at Mycroft. He held onto Sherlock for a moment longer until John's insistent tugging irritated him and he let go. "I love you too, Myc," he whispered against the other man's lips. "I never thought I'd hear you say it though."

Mycroft, forgetting or perhaps no longer caring where they were, let go of the side of the vat to take Lestrade's face in his hands and pull the older man into a deeper kiss. "I should let you both drown," John muttered as he pulled Sherlock onto the platform of the ladder beside him and then grabbed Mycroft and Lestrade by their collars as they started to sink.

MH/GL MH/GL MH/GL

"Sherlock had smacked his head on the side of the vat and knocked himself unconscious so he had a broken wrist and a concussion. Greg had twisted his ankle when they fell and the 'sniper' had a burn on his back from the barrel of the gun. Mycroft didn't have any injuries aside from the irritation of the toffee in his eyes." John finished up. "You should have seen their faces though," he chuckled. "Mycroft and Greg had the most astonished looks when I pulled them back up."

Mummy snickered at the thought and patted John's hand. "It's a very good thing they have you looking out for them," she complimented. "Was that the first time My had said that?" She asked Greg.

Greg nodded and laughed a bit himself. "Yeah, dripping in toffee, hanging on the side of a great big metal vat and he just pops out with it. Craziest thing I think I've ever done."

"Toffee flavored cake it is then," Mummy agreed with a bright grin. "Memories," she sighed. "They're what keep a marriage fresh."


	4. Mornings

**Disclaimer: I live in the U.S. not in London. Lestrade lives in London. How would a relationship like that work out do you think? Not good. At all. So yeah, it's a fantasy. A fun fantasy but still only a wish, a dream. So yeah, they're still not mine and no I don't make any money from these stories.**

**A/N: Yes, I am well aware that there are continuity errors. I just haven't fixed them yet. Not sure if I ever will. I'm an idiot, I know. Honestly though I don't like to question too deeply into my entertainment. Unlike some of my other stories this one doesn't need to be perfect because I'm writing it for enjoyment value not accuracy. The Honey 'Verse is accurate. This one and Sherlock and the CHS are for fun so I don't mind the continuity mistakes. Typos and misspellings on the other hand, let me know about those. Truly. I hate them. Also not Brit picked though I wish it was. So let me know any issues with that as well. Thanks.**

** Okay I know this is unusual for me but I've finished this story and I'm just so proud of it. I have to put the rest of it up today. I hope that none of you are irritated by this and that you enjoy reading the last few chapters of this as much as I enjoyed writing them. Let me know.**

**Mornings**

For the first time in three years, two months and seventeen days (yes he had been counting, thank you very much) John Watson was awoken from a sound slumber by the acrid tang of smoke. His first thought went something along the lines of 'Goddammit, Sherlock! If you've blown up the microwave again I'll…' and then he remembered. Sherlock hadn't blown up the microwave in years because he'd been gone and then he'd been far too timid to irritate John by doing something so outrageous.

He tried for five minutes to come up with some other plausible reason why the flat was filled with the smell of burnt…something and couldn't. It didn't smell like burned food, so Sherlock hadn't been attempting to cook him breakfast. It didn't smell like burnt wood, so the flue wasn't plugged up and it was summer anyway. Sherlock wouldn't have lit a fire in the fireplace in the summer…well, maybe he would have but it wasn't a wood smell.

It wasn't cloth either, not unless Sherlock had soaked it in something before setting it on fire. The smell rather reminded him of the time Sherlock had tested the flammability of different poisons. The smoke damage had been horrendous and Sherlock had spent a day in hospital because of the poisonous smoke he'd managed to inhale even with a breathing mask on. Idiot, John thought fondly and then gasped and leapt from the bed.

"Sherlock!" He shouted as he raced down the stairs and stormed into the kitchen to find his flat mate bent over his microscope with a charred plate beside him. He was wearing a mask again so that was something.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at the bang of the door against the wall. "Oh good, there you are John. I asked you for a pen over two hours ago. Please hand it to me." He waved vaguely at the counter.

John made no move to grab the pen. "Sherlock," he growled out. "Do you by any chance remember what I told you the last time you attempted this exact experiment?"

"I've never attempted this exact experiment, John," Sherlock told him. "I had cyanide the last time and I don't have any cyanide this time. So not the same experiment, you see?" He turned back to the microscope. "Pen."

John moved to stand by the counter and stared down at the pen. "Fine. Do you by chance recall what I told you the last time you tried an experiment like this?"

Sherlock glanced up again and positively beamed at him. "Much better. Do try to be more clear when you speak, John." John growled wordlessly. "Oh, yes?" He said with far more hope than certainty.

John lifted the pen from the counter and clenched it between his fingers tightly. He wasn't sure if he was irritated at Sherlock or ecstatic that Sherlock was finally back. He was finally acting like Sherlock and it made John want to scream and shout and hug him and cry tears of joy and relief. "Tell me what I said the last time you set fire to poisons," he demanded.

Sherlock heaved a put upon sigh and there was the sound of glass rattling as he changed the slide on the microscope. "Why?" He asked in a petulant tone.

"Tell me or I shall play Monty Python on the telly for twelve hours straight at maximum volume. And if you leave, cut the power or try in any other way to stop me I'll fix the problem or wait for you to come back and the twelve hours will start all over again." He turned back around and faced the other man.

Sherlock stared at him in horror and sighed. "Fine. 'You will not do this again without a mask,' which I wore last time too so I don't see why you're so fussed about it. 'Proper ventilation,' the windows are open fully you will not so that one is taken care of. 'Mrs. Hudson being out because her lungs are old and can't take the fumes,' she's at her niece's for the weekend if you'll remember. 'And myself, Greg or Mycroft present,' you're here and you've been here the whole time so that's the whole list." He crossed his arms over his chest and grinned triumphantly at John. "I followed your instructions so you're not allowed to be angry with me."

John opened his mouth to respond that he could be bloody well angry if he wanted too and then shut it when he realized he really wasn't. He handed over the pen and spun about to head up the stairs to dress. "You are such a child," he told his flat mate.

"John," Sherlock drawled in that voice that said danger and comfort and fun and home and so very many things that had been absent for so very long. John stopped and looked over his shoulder. "I am a full grown man, a fully…functioning, fully grown man."

John's mouth went dry. He licked his lips and turned to face his flat mate, his friend, his…please God let this mean what he wanted it to mean. He licked his lips. "P…Prove it."

For the first time in over three years Sherlock grinned his delighted John is clever grin and pounced.

MH/GL MH/GL MH/GL

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade actually liked mornings. He knew it was strange and not at all normal. No one truly liked mornings. But he did. He loved the idea of a fresh day. A day that had yet to be touched by the bleakness of crime or sorrow. A day that held the possibility of…well, everything really. Yes, he really liked mornings.

He really liked mornings spent waking up in his fiancé's arms though. It happened rather rarely. Mycroft was the British Government and so business trips and early meetings were to be expected. Greg didn't mind that so much though it made mornings like this that much more precious.

Greg snuggled back against Mycroft's chest and wrapped the other man's arms more firmly about himself like a breathing blanket. "You're here," he breathed.

The arms squeezed him pleasantly. "Mmm, I am," Mycroft nuzzled his nose into Greg's neck. "You wouldn't happen to know why my schedule is suspiciously empty for today and tomorrow, would you?"

Greg laughed a bit. "No actually I don't this time." He traced his fingers along Mycroft's lightly. "If I were a betting man—"

"Which you are," Mycroft chuffed into the ear he was currently running his tongue along.

Greg shuddered in a sudden burst of desire. "Yes," he hissed and then cleared his throat. "Well, yes I am but anyway…I'd put my money on your mother. She thinks we all four work too much."

"We do," Mycroft murmured and took the lobe between his teeth for a moment. "But England will not run itself and New Scotland Yard needs its best detective to keep the populace safe from the criminal element."

Greg turned over and wrapped his own arms around his fiancé. "Yes, but not today or tomorrow. For the next two days we have absolutely nothing to do but each other."

Mycroft slanted his mouth over Greg's. "I adore it when you're crass, Gregory."

The rest of the morning passed in blissful sighs, breathless moans and all out screams of rapture and love.

Yes, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade loved mornings more than any other part of the day.


	5. The Big Event

**Disclaimer: Oh yeah, the characters are all mine. For sure. What? You don't understand sarcasm? Bad for you. Sorry they still don't belong to me.**

**A/N: Okay, so for those of you who are confused: John was angry with Sherlock because he wasn't being Sherlock. He was a shell that looked like Sherlock but that was it. He didn't talk like Sherlock; he didn't move like Sherlock, he didn't act like Sherlock. He was nice and courteous and considerate. John was worried that Sherlock, his Sherlock, was gone. He was being pissy in the hope that it would bring his Sherlock back. It wasn't really working and he would have given up but Mummy intervened and Sherlock opened his eyes. Any questions? On with the story then.**

**The Big Event**

The day Mycroft Holmes, The British Government, married Gregory Lestrade, NSY's premier Detective Inspector, dawned cloudy, cold and windy. The weather seemed to be throwing the last fit of winter and had chosen the day with careful deliberation. The wedding was to take place in the gardens of Holmes Manor but if this continued they would have to change the venue with very little notice.

Greg stood at the French doors of the family parlour with a cup of tea in one hand staring disconsolately at the weaving trees and flowers outside. He had never imagined that his wedding would take place on such a day. He took a sip of the tea and sighed unhappily.

"It will blow itself out soon," Mummy assured him and placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. "You'll see. By two o'clock it'll be sunny and bright and warm."

He gave her a warm smile and took her hand in his. "Maybe," he agreed. "But we can't know for sure. We should start to make plans to move things inside."

"Nonsense," she scoffed. "The weather will clear up."

"I'd listen to her, if I were you, Greg," John laughed. "Not even Mother Nature would dare to argue with Mummy Holmes."

"And don't you forget it, young man," Mummy told him with asperity. "If Mother Nature won't then why do you insist upon arguing with me?"

"I'm not arguing with you," John refuted and rubbed at the back of his head with one hand. "I fully intend to spend the rest of my life with Sherlock. He just doesn't want the 'trappings of convention' to 'sully our relationship' with tawdry traditionalism."

To his shock Mummy burst out laughing. "Oh John, dear clueless John," she chuckled and came over to ruffle his hair. "He's waiting for you to ask him."

John shook his head in confusion. "He's adamantly against getting married because he wants me to ask him to marry me? No, I'm sorry but I just don't see that." He took a sip of his tea and leveled a stony look at her.

Mummy just gave him that tittering laugh again as a shaft of sunlight hit the windows. "You see?" She asked them both with a knowing twinkle in those gray eyes. "All bluster and no bite."

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Though Mycroft Holmes was a traditional sort of man he knew that his marriage to Gregory Lestrade would be anything but conventional. Oh, he knew that there was quite a difference between tradition and convention but in this one instance the two were closely linked. Bearing this thought in mind he had asked his fiancé if he would like for them to deviate from the traditional wedding service and simply write their own vows. As he'd known he would, Gregory had jumped on the idea with fervor.

They had both kept the contents of their vows secret from each other. Gregory going so far as to hide his with Dr. Anderson so that Sherlock and Mycroft wouldn't find them or even attempt to look for them there. Mycroft had handed his off to Aeronwen, who had amazingly kept the same name for the past month. She had promised to keep the vows away from Gregory's rapacious curiosity.

So here they stood now. In front of family, friends and people they'd never met but Mummy had insisted be there in the bright sunshine after the mornings vicious storm. The world washed clean. Here they stood; ready to commit their lives to one another for eternity.

"The grooms have requested this point in the service be spent listening as they read their own unique vows to each other." The minister told the assembled audience. "Gentlemen?"

"Mycroft," Gregory started. It had been decided between them when the subject first came up that he would go first. "I have known you for years. In those years I have done many things with you. I have talked with you, I have laughed with you, I have grieved with you. We have shared tears and blood and good memories and bad. I have wept on your shoulder as you have wept on mine. I have bandaged your wounds as you have bandaged mine. I have shared a beer with you while we watched telly and I have shared wine with you at countless dinners. In all the years we have known each other we have always been together. I have fought with you and beside you. I have yelled at you and you have yelled at me. We have been beyond angry at each other and yet we were always together in the end. I have asked you to be together with me for the rest of your life and longer and you have agreed. Oh Mycroft in all the years one thing has been constant for me and that is my love of you. I thank you for being there and for promising to be there in the future. Today we pledge this in front of family and friends. Today we give the world our concrete proof of our love or our togetherness. I love you."

Mycroft swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. He'd never known Gregory could be so eloquent. "Gregory," he paused and cleared the huskiness from his voice. "Gregory, you are my best friend. The person I can call at three a.m. because I cannot sleep and you won't be angry you will simply talk to me until I become tired. The person that will hold my hand, though I may not need it, while I'm having my wounds stitched. The person that is there when I open my eyes. I have known you for years and yet every day seems as though I learn something new. You keep me from boredom and you complete me in a way I didn't know was missing. I will always remain by your side and in your life. No matter what the future may bring I know I will always have my best friend to turn to. I thank you, Gregory, for everything you do. I thank you for looking past the surface and finding the heart that I had put on ice. I thank you for loving me as much as I love you. I thank you for giving me forever. I love you."

As one they turned away from each other to face the minister again. "Ladies and gentlemen," the man beamed out at them. "I now pronounce these two men husband and husband. You may now kiss."

And in that timeless instant that is common to the participants at all weddings of those who love each other Mycroft and Gregory lost track of everything else. They were no longer Mycroft Holmes, The British Government and Gregory Lestrade, NSY's premier Detective Inspector, they were MycnGregory, husbands, lovers and most importantly together.

**The End?**


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